


The Puppeteer

by BlueBead



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Emetophobia, Gen, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:50:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7043245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueBead/pseuds/BlueBead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Judgement could do more than just make people sick</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Puppeteer

**Author's Note:**

> A self-indulgent suffering scenario. The Hyper Light Drifter Skype Group needs to stop feeding me mean ideas to write. :Y
> 
> Since Alternate Drifter isn’t PoV in this one, I couldn’t find a way to naturally refer to her with only pronouns, so I just call her Alt in this. My explanation for this is that once she warmed up to the other drifters enough to let them know what she wanted to be called, she just said, “Alt. Don’t ask, it’s a long story,” haha…  
> The Guardian’s title is technically only the fandom’s agreed upon name for them as well, so… just going to go with Alt until there is a canon name for her otherwise.

There was a pain in the Drifter’s chest, but it wasn’t the usual burning in his lungs that he was used to. This was a tightness that felt as if his rib cage was too small for his body. The pain was getting quite severe, but the Drifter wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do about it. Perhaps the coughing fit he had suffered from earlier had strained his ribs somehow.

The Guardian and his travelling companion Alt were away from home at the moment, so the Drifter was alone. He didn’t want to look to any of the townspeople for help because they still gave him the vibe that he wasn’t entirely welcomed here in the city. He decided just to tough it out. After all, he had endured through worse.

His limbs began to ache, so he got up from the chair where he had been typing on his holoscreen to pace around. He glanced in the mirror as he passed by it. He looked like hell. There were dark rings under his even darker eyes, his shirt was lightly damp from a clammy sweat, and he couldn’t muster the energy or enthusiasm to have better posture.

Abruptly, the Drifter was overcome by a stabbing pain in his chest, and he collapsed to his knees. The edges of his vision flickered, and his limbs went numb. He wasn’t coughing, and it wasn’t his lungs in particular that were ailing him. What was happening?

The Drifter’s limbs gave out completely, and his body went limp. He struggled to pick himself up, but he felt paralyzed. Gravity glued him to the cold floor.

Then something happened that was even stranger still. He began to stand up. However, it wasn’t of his own volition. He toiled to resist this alien movement, but he was unsuccessful.

Then…

Then he felt something writhe deep within his chest.

The sensation triggered a visceral reaction in the Drifter’s body. He lurched forward and vomited, emptying his stomach. His throat and nostrils burned. When he forced his eyes open, his heart leapt into his throat. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but a jet black puddle beneath him was certainly not it. His mouth tasted like bile and decay.

He wanted to recoil in horror or to scream for help, but he was capable of neither. Instead, whatever was controlling him straightened up and looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. It looked over at the mirror. The Drifter could see the black bile still running down his chin, and an unnatural glint in his eyes. It twisted his face into a wicked, revolting smile.

A voice could be heard approaching the front door, and the puppeteer controlling the Drifter turned to look. He recognized the voice as his comrade’s; the Guardian. The puppeteer smiled again, and shambled over to the closet where the Drifter stored his equipment. It reached for his sword.

Oh no… Oh no, oh no no no no no…!

The Drifter tried everything in his power to seize control of his own body. He tried to lock up or to at least let his arms go limp and drop his weapon. Nevertheless, he was incapable of doing so. His powerless struggling only led to pain lancing through his body.

The front door opened, and he could hear the Guardian step inside and close the door behind themself. The puppeteer hadn’t turned to acknowledge them yet, but instead it flicked on the hard light blade of his sword. It grinned, pleased.

“Drifter?” the Guardian inquired. The hint of concern in their voice made it apparent that they were aware something was amiss.

Footsteps approached from behind him. Trapped in his own mind, he begged for them to not to come near him… for them to turn around and leave. He had no idea what his puppeteer would do, but he had a very strong idea. Unfortunately, he was correct.

Abruptly, the puppeteer whirled around, incorporating a sword swing into the circular motion. The Guardian thankfully still had their armor on to protect their torso, but the Drifter’s sword left a deep laceration in their arm. They jerked backwards and instinctively drew their own weapon. Terror and confusion filled their eyes.

“What are you doing?! Drifter, it’s me!” the Guardian sputtered.

The puppeteer paid them no mind and charged at them again. The Drifter was grateful that its swings were sloppy and unskilled, and the Guardian easily deflected the attacks. As a matter of fact, they managed to parry one of the swings and wrenched the sword from the Drifter’s hands.

“Drifter,” the Guardian begged, “I’m not going to fight you. I _won’t hurt you_!” Their voice cracked on their words. They dropped their sword as an act of surrender, but The Drifter desperately wished they hadn’t.

Abandoning the sword, the puppeteer blitzed towards the Guardian. It wrapped the Drifter’s hands around their neck and slammed them into the wall behind them, digging the claws on his thumbs into their jugular. The Guardian’s hands shot up to grasp at his wrists in an attempt to pull his arms away, but the puppeteer was crushing their neck with a strength the Drifter didn’t even know he had. All the while, the Drifter was trying with every fiber of his being to release them. Blood began to trickle through his fingers while the Guardian choked and gagged on their own saliva, desperate for air.

He wanted to wake up. He wanted this to just be some horrible hallucination caused by his illness that would end with him waking to the Guardian or Alt comforting him like they always would.

The Drifter heard hurried footsteps advancing behind him and a grunt of exertion before something hard and metal crashed into the back of his skull. His vision lit up with sparks and he tumbled to the hard floor. He could feel warm liquid dripping down the back of his head.

Reflexively, the Drifter tried to prop himself back up with his arms, discovering that he actually _could_. He had regained some control. He went against the puppeteer’s commands and rolled over into a sitting position, using his legs to push himself backwards. He looked up to see Alt’s drone hovering close to him. Alt herself stood behind it with one hand raised, ready to give her drone orders, and a metal wrench in the other. There was a look of outrage in her eye. Against the far wall, the Guardian was slumped over, gasping for air.

The Drifter wasn’t going to let this brief opportunity of control go to waste.

“Re-khh-strain me…” he choked out, struggling to get his mouth to cooperate and form the words.

Alt’s expression softened slightly, and she hastily strode over to some of the boxes the Guardian kept lying around. She rummaged around for a moment and then grabbed a fistful of power cords and made her way back to the Drifter, who was rigid with a great effort to keep himself still. She grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and shoved him forward. She then gathered his arms behind him and tied them together with one of the cords. She did the same with his ankles.

The control the Drifter had of his body waned, and the puppeteer thrashed against the bindings. The cord dug painfully into his wrists. The puppeteer locked eyes with Alt and snarled like a feral animal. She glared back, remarkably perturbed.

 

Eventually, the Drifter must have passed out, because he doesn’t remember much of what happened after that. When he awoke, his arms and legs were still bound. Alt was sitting in a nearby chair, eyeing him like a hawk. The Guardian was laying still on the bed. Upon seeing them, memories of what he’d done to them came flooding back. Pressure built up behind his eyelids, and a lump formed in his throat.

“Ah… A-are they…? he stammered. Tears began to stream down his cheeks and his shoulders shook.

The Guardian sat up. He could see that their arm had been bandaged, but he couldn’t see their neck because it was obscured by the fur collar of their cloak. They walked over and sat on the floor in front of the Drifter, still at a safe distance.

Normally, the Drifter was a person of very few words. To be honest, he hated talking. Regardless, he couldn’t stop the flow of words, just like he couldn’t stop the flow of tears.

“I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…! I… I didn’t… It wasn’t… I would never want to hurt-“

“It’s fine,” the Guardian interrupted in a raspy, barely audible voice. Hearing that the Guardian could barely speak threw the Drifter into an even worse fit of hysteria.

“It’s… it’s not! It’s not fine! _Nothing_ about this is fine!!” he wailed, choking on his tears. He could no longer bear to make eye contact with them and tore his gaze away, weeping.

Sensing that he was back to his usual self, the Guardian shuffled forward and undid the knotted cords around the Drifter’s limbs. When they were done, the Drifter threw his arms around them and buried his face in the fur on their shoulder. His entire body shuddered with hiccups. The Guardian embraced him in return and rubbed his back soothingly.

He didn’t even notice that Alt had sat down next to them until she wrapped her arms around them both. She let out an exaggerated, irritated sigh.

Her voice was muffled because she too had smothered her face in the Guardian’s cloak.

“Why do our lives have to be so freaking complicated?”


End file.
